The Siege

by Stephen White

  Ann breezed into the sunroom as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

  She dropped the air of invulnerability the moment she saw that I was alone. “I beat Ronnie home, thank goodness. But I’m sure he’s right behind me. Did Julio—” She glanced at my wrapped wrist. “I see he did. Good.”

  “Ann, in case the guy who wrote the note has some way to monitor you this weekend—”

  Her cell phone intruded by playing the opening few bars of “Nine to Five.”

  She held up a finger toward me.

  I was about to make an argument to her that if she didn’t hear from her daughter very soon, I thought it would be better if I worked from the hotel, not her house. We shouldn’t make it easy for anyone to connect the two of us.

  “One second,” she said. “Every time it rings, I’m hoping it’s Jane.” She checked the screen. “Says, ‘Out of Area.’ Maybe she did borrow someone’s phone. Right?”

  I watched hope invade before her eyes closed softly, as though in prayer.

  She opened her eyes, mouthed, Be Jane, pressed a spot on the phone’s screen, raised the phone to her ear, and said, “Hello.”

  APRIL 18, FRIDAY AFTERNOON

  NEW HAVEN

  The patrol supervisor at the Yale University Police is beginning to get aggravated.

  The only common ground among the three missing kids is that they each have at least one friend who says they were tapped the night before. Two were tapped for Book & Snake. One for Skull & Bones.

  The patrol officer who has been running down information on the secret societies walks back into the building.

  He says, “I have tap lists for Skull & Bones and Book & Snake for this year and last. Nothing official. I even have a couple for Scroll & Key. For last year, we’re good, the lists are pretty consistent with each other. For this year, one doesn’t agree with the next—they’re close, but not the same.

  “Limerick says the tombs are privately owned, even the ones with real estate on campus.” The officer starts reading from notes. “Ownership is obscure. Difficult to track. Shell corporations. Trusts, like that. Jurisdiction is ‘complicated.’ His word. He thinks getting permission to enter any of them will be a ‘nightmare.’ Again, Limerick’s word. He’s sure we’ll end up needing a warrant and ‘probable cause squared.’ He said to remind you that there are very powerful people all over the country who will absolutely not want us to see what goes on inside those buildings. He stressed the ‘very powerful’ part. Reputations are at stake. He expects that they will use all their influence to ‘thwart us.’ His words.”

  The shift supervisor mouths, Fuck me. Out loud, he says, “My words.”

  “Officer Cirillo went to both tombs. Nobody answered. No big surprise. It’s Friday afternoon. As far as we know, no one lives in either building. The tap festivities should have ended by the time he got there. The societies keep a pretty firm Thursday and Sunday night schedule.”

  “Phone numbers?”

  “We got numbers from the university. I called. Left messages for someone to call me ASAP. I’m not holding my breath.”

  “Emergency contacts?”

  “The most recent ones the university has are from 1999. I left messages.”

  “I know—you’re not holding your breath.”

  The officer shrugs. “We don’t have grounds for a warrant. Not even close.”

  “I’ll call New Haven PD and alert Yale Security. Put a patrol outside both tombs. To observe. If someone goes in or comes out, I want to know.”

  “YDN? Any updates?”

  “Just that rumor of a tap injury. We’re monitoring the website. DUH hasn’t heard anything about any injured students. Neither has Yale Hospital, or New Haven PD.”

  APRIL 19, SATURDAY MIDDAY

  Dee and Poe

  Poe was watching Deirdre pack her suitcase. The counterterrorism coordination conference was over. The country was safer. Had to be. It was time for Dee to go back to Virginia. To G.B. Jerry.

  She had tuned the television to Fox News. Considering the previous day’s developments on campus in New Haven, the situation in Connecticut was the story of the day. From all appearances, the only story of the day.

  “Where are you heading next, Poe?” she asked.

  They’d skipped their dive bar ritual the night before. Dee had wanted to go to a movie. While they walked the quiet streets afterward, he had told her that prior to the meeting in Philly he had been in Savannah, Georgia, for a couple of weeks. Before that, Sante Fe, New Mexico. During their time together he had mentioned ports a couple of times. If she were forced to guess, she would have guessed he was heading next to some harbor for some soon-to-be-fruitless investigation. Norfolk, San Diego. Seattle.

  Ports.

  She didn’t know how Poe did what he did. Alone on the road all the time. She also didn’t know if he would ever heal enough to get it together to do anything else.

  She busied herself folding her underwear into neat little triangles.

  Poe was dividing his attention between the television and Dee’s deliberate packing. He was growing bored by the same static shot of nothing happening at the front of the Greek temple building at Yale and was perversely fascinated by the precision with which Dee folded her panties and bras.

  Even though their network’s cameras were pointed at the Book & Snake tomb, the studio anchors were entertaining their viewers, or at least themselves, with stories from movies they had seen that featured Skull & Bones, the most prominent secret society at Yale. One of the studio personalities made a less-than-sincere attempt at keeping the whole thing honest by reminding viewers that the stories they were telling might not be true, seeing as they came from the movies.

  Not one of the three people chatting away, however, seemed to be at all disconcerted that the stories they were telling were, even if true, not in the least relevant, since the tomb that was the focus of all the current news attention was Book & Snake, not Skull & Bones.

  Poe was more amused than appalled by their act. He thought it was the journalistic equivalent of pointing out locations on a map of New Hampshire because you didn’t happen to have one of Connecticut.

  Three times in one minute one of the anchors repeated the apparent scoop that Bob Woodward has been a member of Book & Snake. They had a call in to Mr. Woodward, they asserted, seeking confirmation and a comment.

  Poe said, “They’re reading Wikipedia.”

  Dee, who Poe knew could get defensive about Fox News, said, “How do you know that, Poe?”

  He displayed his BlackBerry. “Because I’m reading Wikipedia. Same stuff.”

  She made a face at him and returned her attention to her underwear.

  The weekend anchors seemed genuinely perplexed about why Bob hadn’t called them back live. The whole concept behind a “secret society”—especially the “secret” part—seemed to be eluding them.

  A blond woman who Poe had already decided spent more time applying makeup than she did reading current events added, “And now Garry Trudeau, too.” She nodded knowingly.

  Poe raised his BlackBerry again. He said, “Want to bet it’s more Wikipedia? I’ll check.”

  Dee growled.

  The anchor chose that moment to go all editorial. “I mean . . . really. That tells you something, doesn’t it? Garry Trudeau? If it’s true, right? And we have no reason to doubt our sources. What are we talking about exactly? You know? Well, I repeat . . . We have learned—we do understand—that it’s also possible that Garry Trudeau; yes, the Doonesbury Garry Trudeau, one and the same, was also a member of Book & Snake. Maybe even is a member of Book & Snake.”

  Under his breath Poe grumbled, “Looks like it’s actually Scroll & Key. It’s also possible that Garry Trudeau’s a member of the Masons. Or the astronaut corps. Maybe he’s even a Pussycat Doll.”

  Dee heard the part about the Pussycat Doll. She said, “What?”

  Poe said, “Nothing, baby.” He leaned back onto an elbow and smiled at
her. He’d concluded that the triangulation of Dee’s panties was much more interesting than what was currently on television.

  Dee said, “Apparently, my old boss is a member.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Porter Goss. I just got an email. Apparently, he’s a member of Book & Snake, too.”

  Poe didn’t get that email. He was guessing it was from G.B. Jerry. “Really? Director of the CIA? That is interesting. Maybe you should call Fox and let them know. They can call him for a comment.”

  Dee widened her eyes and flared her nostrils in consternation at Poe.

  Poe memorized the expression for later playback. He was about to ask Dee, Why on earth did you bring so much underwear? when sudden motion on the screen caught his eye. “There’s a kid,” he said. “Out front. Look.” He raised his chin toward the television.

  “Well,” Dee said. She stopped what she was doing. “I guess that means those kids are really in there.” She scrambled down to the end of the bed, closer to the screen, an unfolded purple lace bra dangling from her left hand.

  Poe didn’t remember seeing that bra. On her. Or coming off her.

  They watched the young man try to gain his bearings outside the Greek building in New Haven. Dee put on her Company hat. She said, “He’s been in the dark. Maybe even hooded. Look at his eyes. Look at him blinking. He’s trying to adjust to the light.” She paused. “Or it could just be dark in there. There aren’t any windows. Is the power off? Do you know?”

  “His wrists are red, too,” Poe said. “See the bands? He’s been restrained. Shackled, maybe. Not,” he paused, “good signs.”

  “Shut the hell up,” she said.

  Dee wasn’t shushing Poe—she was talking to the network anchors who had accelerated their mindless patter.

  The young man’s clear words broke through.

  “. . . I am a bomb. Stay where you are.”

  That shut the anchors up. Below the image of the terrorized young man the crawl on the screen read, “Doonesbury creator in Book & Snake?”

  “Shit.” Poe no longer cared a whit about Garry Trudeau. He scampered down the length of the mattress to sit beside Dee at the foot of the bed. She took his hand, placed it on her knee, and put her hand on top of his.

  The kid lifted his shirt, displaying a rectangular pack that was taped around his waist. The camera briefly zoomed in on some comic book lettering on the tape.

  BOMB

  Dee said, “That’s not real.”

  Poe said, “It’s real.” His tone was not at all contrary.

  “How can you be so sure?” Dee asked.

  He wasn’t sure how he could be so sure. He could, literally, smell it. He was self-aware enough to recognize that his sudden olfactory prowess wasn’t a good thing. He touched her lips with two fingers without taking his eyes from the screen.

  Poe said, “This is not good. So not good.”

  The hostage began to speak. Although they could hear some of what he was saying, it was difficult for them to make out all of his words. The network microphones weren’t picking up the comments from the hostage negotiator at all.

  “Cell towers . . . cameras . . .” Poe whispered along as the kid’s voice broke through in fits and starts. When the young man said, “You have five minutes,” Poe pressed the button on his wrist that launched the stopwatch.

  “What, Poe? What?” Dee asked.

  He touched her lips again.

  The negotiator was speaking, but they couldn’t hear her.

  Suddenly, the woman’s voice jumped into the mix. It was a clear sound, a compassionate voice.

  She invited the hostage taker to come outside.

  She waited only briefly for a reply before she inquired whether anyone inside was injured. She offered medical help.

  “She’s going by the book,” Poe said, shaking his head. “He’s not. Can she really not know that?”

  “Who’s not?” Dee asked.

  “The unsub.”

  The unknown subject. The guy inside. The “he.”

  The young man started speaking once more. His words were halting. It took him almost thirty seconds to say “He is not here to negotiate about anything. Anything.”

  Dee and Poe were riveted as the negotiator responded.

  They each held their breath as the kid said he would die in three minutes.

  The young man blinked twice. Dee said, “Was that important? Those blinks?”

  Poe shook his head. The kid shifted his weight from his left foot to his right foot, and then back. Poe said, “I can’t tell.”

  The negotiator asked the hostage his name.

  She asked how many other hostages were inside.

  Then she asked, “Is it only one man in there?”

  The silence felt cruel. Seconds were becoming minutes. Too fast.

  Poe could tell that the negotiator was moving from bullet point to bullet point. He was thinking, You’re not seeing what’s happening. The protocols are for shit. You need to come back to this stuff later. Give him what he wants. Now.

  The young man blinked two more times.

  Poe said, “He did it again. Dee? Any idea what that means?”

  Dee shook her head. “Don’t know, baby.” Her voice was hollow.

  The negotiator asked, “What does he want? The man . . . inside?”

  Poe said, “Good question.”

  “Two minutes,” said the young man.

  “Did you see that? His fingers?” Dee said.

  “I missed it. What?” Poe asked.

  “He extended an index finger on each hand. One plus one? Is that it? For two minutes?”

  Poe pressed his body closer to Dee. He required the contact. They sat silently, transfixed. The kid bowed his head. Frustration? Resignation? Neither of them was sure.

  Poe jumped forward suddenly, his eyes within a foot of the screen. He pointed directly at the screen, his finger an inch from the glass. “Look at the kid’s left ear. He’s wearing a piece. A good one. See it, Dee? It’s almost invisible. The kid is being told what to say. In real time. Whoa.”

  Dee said, “Bluetooth? Impressive.” Her voice was an amalgam of sarcasm and irony, any admiration she was feeling for the unsub’s tech skills solidly in check.

  When the kid said, “I will die in one minute,” Dee turned away from the screen.

  Poe glanced down at his watch. He thought, Yes, one minute.

  He felt disembodied.

  Poe had started floating. He was able to look down and see himself sitting beside Dee on the bed. It was as though he was watching them from a little blimp.

  He knew it was a bad, bad sign.

  Dee resumed watching the hostage’s torment. Her anxiety was cresting. She said, “Can they get this done in time? Get the cell towers back up? Do you know anything about this stuff, Poe? How long does it take to get a tower running after it’s down? Is one minute enough?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Poe said. He was tempted to ask Dee to grab his feet and tug him back down to the floor. He didn’t ask. He knew it would freak her out.

  Dee was offended. “What do you mean it doesn’t matter? What if that bomb is real?”

  “The bomb is real. But it doesn’t matter what they do about the cell towers. This isn’t a demand to do something. It’s just a lesson. The unsub is teaching us who he is.”

  Deirdre’s big-picture training was failing her in the microcosm that was the building in New Haven and the kid and the bomb and the unsub. She said, “What do you mean, ‘a lesson’? The cell tower thing is the only demand, right? How can it not matter?”

  “Because that—whether or not the cell tower becomes active in time—would involve a degree of chance. Something that is beyond the control of the unsub. Unless I’m seriously misreading him, this unsub isn’t about to leave anything to chance.

  “This is his first contact with us, with the world, in what . . . two days? Think about it as his introduction. He’s been in there with those kids since Thur
sday night. He’s had plenty of time to plan this, to get it exactly the way he wants it. He’s spelling out who he is. How he works. How he thinks. How this is going to come down.

  “Mostly, though, he’s telling us who is in charge.”

  Dee was having trouble keeping distance from what she was seeing. One moment, she was a woman trying to mend parallel rips in her heart. A woman folding her underwear, preparing to leave her lover for another year, preparing to return to her husband for another year. The next moment she was an international terrorism expert trying to make sense of the most spare information. She knew from experience that the solid transformation back to intelligence analyst would come more naturally in the hours after she parted with Poe.

  Many years of Aprils leaving Poe behind had convinced her that she was a better counterterrorism analyst around Jerry. A better woman around Poe.

  “Come on, Poe. Look at that . . . Listen to what he said about—”

  “This isn’t a kidnapping, baby.” He reached out to her, comforted that she was actually there. He put his arm around her waist, pulled her tight to him. She curled into him willingly. “This isn’t some . . . crazy college hostage situation. Check the calendar. This is April . . . April. Again.”

  She visualized the roster in her head.

  Waco. Oklahoma City. Columbine. Virginia Tech.

  She knew what month it was.

  “Oh my God. Oh, Poe. Holy . . . ,” she said. “Holy . . .”

  Before this trip Poe had never heard Dee use the word “holy” that way. It was something new, something he didn’t understand about her. The previous day, he’d asked her about it once, after the movie. She just shook her head.

  He planned to ask her about it again.

  The screen shot divided in two. One half of the split screen was the same shot of the kid in front of the building.

  Poe thought he saw something in the kid’s eyes that made it clear he already knew his future. Poe’s brain registered an important fact: The bomb on the hostage’s waist wasn’t bound with shrapnel. The bomb had only one intended victim.